Thick, distinct lines characterize the stylized iconography of Riley Mate, AKA Pseudodudo. His works are clean and often colorful, with a wry sense of humor and a spirit of exploration. The way in which his art plays perspective and geometry can be reminiscent of the art deco movement, except it doesn’t shy away from its playful side and lacks any degree of self-importance. Exploring his site is a further dive into a whole Pseudodudo world. Embroidered clothes sit in galleries next to pseudisms – unique observations about the world around us – and you’ll scroll from commissioned art pieces to his offer to work for his true calling: avocado selection. Everywhere you’ll find little jokes and design gems, all serving to create a whole world of Pseudodudo-goodness to probe and to love.

Appropriately, Pseudodudo’s art can be found all over our world, as well, from travel tours to album artwork to company logos. He’s worked with Patagonia, Circles On Sounds festival, local establishments, and individuals to create customized design for all. Perhaps my favorite of his work is his page dedicated to hypothetical Band Names, complete with suggested genre, such as Tevenseen (dyslexia jazz) and Stabula Rasa (lethal prog).

– Jason Adams

Intro Letter

Anyone who has successfully kept the same cell phone contact list intact for more than a decade or two will agree that life is, indeed, long. An average social life will accumulate random human connections like a black sweater playing with a white dog. Suddenly they are everywhere! With locations for last names or last names for companies, we can barely recollect the who/what/why of these people. And much like the dog scenario, in these human connections we sometimes get affection, and we sometimes get bit. And sometimes it is even our fault. But these are the people that shape us, like a highway median, firmly guiding us as we hurtle down the road of life at questionable speeds.

Then every once in a while we pull off at the last rest area for 52 miles to answer nature’s call and pray that the sun-baked vending machine takes credit cards. With hand on hip, we talk ourselves through the options because that always makes buying stale snacks feel better somehow.

“Ooh, they have Abba Zabba! I gotta text Blake a photo. We used to love those. Where is his number in this damn phone…”

And so it goes. But no time to organize these contacts now. We’ve got an Abba Zabba to eat and more road ahead. Everyone buckled in?